a/n : for the first prompt of graylu week : breathe. excuse the writing style, i'm kind of affected with the story setting ^^" (lower case because of random mood.)
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#8 : failing grace
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The ballroom is stuffy. Not the kind of stuffy in the degrees within bickering crickets of summer, not the starching type of heat one feels near a cackling bonfire, not the kind when flaming magic meets skin, blistering, lighting something in him as words of challenge trickle and adrenaline sprints like forest fire onto the tips of icy fingers.
It's stuffy because entire marble floor is mismatched with overdressed ladies and men with tight leather pants. Stuffy, for the air reeks of poignant jabs and poised smiles, perfumes of cutting odor and expensive face powder, rigid and corseted with stiff manners and dull topics. As if they are dolling themselves, he thinks, putting a layer of mask on their eyes to cover envy with judging pleasantries, to brag their fortune with the light swishes of their gowns and the shine of their shoes rather than meaning to extract what a genuine party has to offer. Fun.
Fun my ass, he snorts on the column of his thin glass, sipping the azure liquid of sparkles and weirdly, sweet-sour cherry taste. Well the cocktail's good, he can give them that.
The fancy invitees are gathered separately in talking groups of two and three and four, circling close enough like they do under a shared wide parasol but a safe enough distance to not walk into any personal boundaries. An invitee with a little bit more extravagance sewn in her dress or extra gold engraved in his buttons converses in larger group, as do beautiful petals and sweet-smelling nectar attract a swarm of buzzing bees.
In the atmosphere that speaks of familiarity yet not really, in the event anyone is supposed to enjoy yet not really, Gray never feels more out of place. And stuffier. And hotter.
The brunette is almost halfway undoing the third button of his navy dress shirt had not a voice halted him.
"Don't you dare," the threat drawls low but smooth with a hint of panic and he knows without looking that it's Lucy.
"Hey princess," his smirk is sheepish and teasing all at once, but he buttons the shirt back. He preserves his life after all, "Having fun?"
"What a jest," the blonde's scoff comes with a tiny clink and a weighed roll of eyes. Her own slim glass is filled with exuberant pink. And the taste of melon, he absently detects.
"Ah, using fancy words now, aren't we?" He nudges, pointing out her unusual choice of speech, probably still tinged with the mood of her previous conversation with one of the socialites about intricate teacups or...something.
Her cheeks turn a shade brighter than her gown and a tint darker than her drink. She murmurs, "Sorry, old habit dies hard."
Gray finds himself silently agreeing. It is prominent that though her heiress status has been a history, Lucy still fleets through the ball with fluid grace. Be it her witty words or regal appearance, the blonde is still able to knit her way between the varying upper classes and genders alike even without the mention of her parents. It marks a contrast between him and her, he realizes, that beneath the paints and crafts of their adventures dug up, their upbringing still defies. Because within the chandeliers too vibrant and glowing silks fluttering they're dizzying, unlike him she belongs, and still will if ever she in a way or another decides to return to the life she was born in.
The shallow stupid train of thought makes the cherry on his tongue sourer than before and he chastises himself for even thinking it.
"Where are your...admirers?"
The ice alchemist catches soft caramel concerns peeking through her curled eyelashes behind the curiosity. Something must have shown in his face and he appreciates her not asking and attempting to shift the topic instead.
"They left once I pointed at ash brain and said he was a friend of mine," his answer brings her a breed of cringe and ridicule. Their pink-haired teammate and his pet exceed had been so engrossed in watching (and trying not to lick) the 'uber-awesome' chocolate fountain it was funny. Erza who was supposed to look after the idiot of a dragon slayer too had distracted herself with a satisfying pile of sweet delicacies in the same section. The remembrance of the stricken Lucy dealing with them earlier makes him bite his smile. They are on an disguised mission after all, and in order to merge with the crowd, they can't afford any unnecessary attention or outstanding humiliation (and exhibitionism, she told him especially beforehand).
"Too bad," the glass touches her lips, a kiss of light lipstick smudging the transparent material, "They seem rather keen to save you the effort of getting you out of your tux too."
I can strip for myselfthankyouverymuch, he wants to protest, but hears the tight note of her sentences and the furrow on her brow and can't help but tease, "What, jealous?" shoving the amused laughter and the hassling jitters of implications and possibilities down his throat.
"I got my own spare of attention," she repels, not missing a beat (to his almost disappointment). But though her gesture swells with veiled pride, there is a dim glint in her eyes that speaks of something not as pleasant, akin almost to discomfort. And why not, Gray realizes, as vain as a girl appears to be, most won't appreciate being talked to with the mere purpose of blatant ogling, speaking of his uncomfortable experience with the gushing ladies himself.
(Not that he was watching her throughout the exchange. He only steals some glance to make sure no one did anything funny to his teammate is all.)
"Hey," she fills the perpetual silence in a daze and an afterthought, "Wanna dance?"
His beverage has long been drained off its container but the surprise still urges him to choke dramatically. He manages an intelligent one-syllable murmur posed with a question mark.
"It's boring just standing in front of the beverage table and who knows if you're turning into a rainbow when you try more of those," she refers to the six empty glasses as the remaining variant of cocktails he has downed and his nape reddens. Who can blame him? He was a bored party gauche, and the contradicting colored drinks seemed interesting enough companies.
"What about the others?" It's a strange anomaly that he is the reminder of their mission. Usually it's Erza because she is just lawful like that, and Lucy because she needs her rent money first and foremost.
She mentions that they are stationed near the entrance and they all will be easily alerted of suspicious infiltration for the dance floor is the center of invitees anyway.
"Trust me," she convinces when she sees him hesitate, "It's the part I love most in balls and perhaps the only one. Come on."
There's a thin difference between expertise and love, he grunts, but sights the staggering twinkle in her eyes and wonders for a while if she misses her parents, or her old home, or parties with the same theme at a different time with different people.
"I can only do awkward tree-dancing," he warns her seriously.
Lucy only lets out a tinkering laugh, pulls him where couples assemble—in which light melodies he just notices curl the loudest—and suddenly he is aware of her arms on his stiff shoulder, his automatic hands on her waist, the stray strand of her upped blond, the pearly skin where her bubbly sleeves lower into pastel and lilac, hugging her figure and accenting the flecks of her giddy eyes.
Heat creeps where she touches and he breaths in too sweet vanilla, yet when she guides him to twirl and dip and smile, he decides that it's a nice kind of stuffy.
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a/n : if you haven't known, graylu week runs from sept 15-21. check more of it at grayluweek on tumblr, or you can just search the tag :)
~snowdrop03
